


The Married Ones

by Jenwryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have always understood," Sherlock says, looking at John in a sideways kind of way, "that the hour has little relevance, when it comes to a desire for sexual intercourse."</p><p><span class="small">(Rather vague spoilers for 'The Great Game'.)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Married Ones

The married ones, John notes, are at it again. He tries to stop the sigh before it can get to his mouth, but fails badly; fails badly at stopping it from leaving his mouth, too. He shifts, uncomfortable, and knows, without even having to look up from his laptop, that Sherlock will have heard him. He knows, too, that Sherlock will be perfectly aware of what's caused his huff of resignation – it isn't as though Sherlock can't hear them, just as well as John can. The soft thud of a bed, just grazing against the wall; the softer sound, of someone repeating a name, over and over. (John can't actually make the name out, to be honest, and he hasn't the faintest idea what it might be, because he's thoroughly modern, and thoroughly British, and he's never actually spoken to his neighbours, married or otherwise, though he thinks he might have seen the older of the two taking the rubbish out; Sherlock, of course, would know their names, even without the staccato murmuring.) And it isn't as though the couple are _trying_ to be loud. In fact, its thoroughly obvious, even to John, that they're actually attempting to be quiet. But the noise is still there, achingly audible, through the thin walls that bind their apartments together, and it's not as though John can avoid it.

Actually, come to think of it, he probably could find the earphones that Harry had given him for Christmas, if he looked hard enough. He thinks Sherlock had had them last, though – something to do with an experiment involving teenage suicide (John really hadn't wanted to know) – so the chances of them still being actually useful, as earphones, is rather a slender one. Perhaps he could go out. For a walk. Maybe buy some cereal. Or apples. Or both.

John's train of thought is distracted by the sound of Sherlock clearing his throat, in that ridiculously expressive way of his. John looks up and towards his flatmate, even though he knows full well that he really, really shouldn't.

Sherlock is studying him.

"It doesn't bother me," John lies. Then adds, more truthfully, when one of Sherlock's eyebrows twitches, "But it's three in the fucking afternoon, you know?"

Sherlock's mouth moves, just a little, before he speaks, and John resents the indescribable thing it does to his entirely mutinous stomach. "I have always understood," Sherlock says, looking at John in a sideways kind of way, "that the hour has little relevance, when it comes to a desire for sexual intercourse."

John moves his knees, and rubs his thumbnail against his right eyebrow. He wonders, yet again, why the man talking like a bloody dictionary does the things to him that it does. He wonders, also yet again, whether he really should have kept going to his therapist after all, because clearly he's insane – except, he knows, without having to see her, what she'd have to say on this particular topic. His stomach is fluttering. _Fluttering_. Or twisting, maybe, with the slight, tantalising nausea of anxiety. He can't quite tell the difference, not any more. He's evolved backwards, and is becoming a hormonal fool again.

Next door, someone lets out a throaty gasp, clearly aiming for subdued but landing wide from the mark; a whole lungful of desire being exhaled. The sound rakes at John's spine, and then there's silence.

Silence in John and Sherlock's flat, too.

John realises that he's closed his eyes. He opens them again, and looks resolutely at Sherlock, as though to prove that he is, in no way, absolutely no way, not even the slightest amount of way, bothered.

Nor perturbed. Nor ruffled.

Nor turned on.

Sherlock only has to raise an eyebrow, though, all slow and knowing and amused; as if on cue, John splutters out, "It wouldn't be any better if one of them were a woman. It's not the gay thing; I meant it, when I said that it's all fine – you know damn well that I meant it, Sherlock. It's _not_ the gay thing. It's the sex thing! It's the noisy, good-sounding, clearly bloody _satisfying_ sex thing!"

John has, as per pretty much always, said too much.

Sherlock is wearing that expression that suggests he's just realised something more than a little bit interesting. It's hardly the first time John's seen that look, but it's only very rarely directed at him (or, perhaps, he only very rarely sees it, when it is; either way). He knows, though, that it barely ever bodes well. Not for him, and probably not for the furniture. Well, except for that one time with the chocolate ice-cream, but there are exceptions to everything and _oh Christ_ , Sherlock has moved, and is leaning against John's chair.

He really is stupidly tall.

Sherlock picks up John's laptop, with one of his likewise stupidly pale hands, and John thinks yes, yes, this is the moment when my afternoon goes from vaguely disturbed by way of the neighbours fucking, to plain old prosaically fucked.

Sherlock puts the laptop on the table, balancing it not-quite-precariously between a staggeringly large pile of books ( _Analysing Foetal Blood-work_ says one; _Requirements Engineering: From System Goals to UML Models to Software Specifications_ , says another, flung, as they are, from one case to the next) and three empty teapots. When his hands are empty again, Sherlock looks at John for a moment – one, two, two-and-a-half – and then slithers down onto the floor, with that weird careless grace of his, so that he's seated at John's feet, his head flung back to rest on the arm of John's chair.

Sherlock's hair, John's fingers tell him, is softer than it really ought to be, and somehow warmer, too. It sprawls against John's hand, impulsive and invasive, just like Sherlock has sprawled the rest of himself out on the floor.

John pulls his hand back, then realises, with a stabbing hit of not-really-surprise, that he rather wishes he hadn't.

He can actually smell Sherlock. Soap, and battery grime, and beeswax, and a faint touch of the bolognese that John had thrown together for their lunch. Sherlock wriggles on the floor, turning, now, so that both his hands are steepled together on the chair's arm, his chin resting on top of them. John can _smell_ him; the scent of him, his skin, his hair, as he sits there, half kneeling, still half sprawled. His face is tipped up to John's, the lines in his neck suggesting a restrained urge for movement, as though he's thinking about darting forwards. As though he's thinking about surging up onto his knees, and kissing John or, quite possibly, suffocating him with one of the handily located cushions. John would probably be up for either option, right now.

No doubt something of that sentiment shows on his bloody face, too.

Sherlock's mouth quirks into a half grin, one of the _real_ expressions that John adores, that John hangs his own mood on; one that usually only John gets to see, one that says Sherlock is genuinely, truly amused. Is genuinely, truly feeling something. Because John comprehends full well, of course, that Sherlock _does_ feel things. If he hadn't already have worked it out, the raw hurt in Sherlock's voice, that night at the pool, would have made it clear; later, too, when they'd woken up, bruised and startlingly alive. John had worked it out before that, though. He finds it so obvious, what with the way the man scampers around London like an overgrown child, all swings of mood and shifts of excitement. John doesn't know why other people don't see it, don't see to the _heart_ of it, but halt, instead, on the edges, recognising nothing but Sherlock's glee at crimes committed, and not seeing the pulse beneath.

But then, considering that Sherlock himself doesn't seem to see it, John supposes they ought to be excused.

Moriarty had seen it. Moriarty had named Sherlock for what he was, for what he is, for what he could be. Moriarty had named Sherlock's heart.

The thought of it – the possibility of it – keeps John awake at night.

Knowing it, though, knowing that feeling does press against Sherlock's bones, does push against Sherlock's skin, makes it worse. It makes the scent of him, close to John – the phantom memory, still clinging to John's hand, of dark, warm curls – worse. Knowing that Sherlock is capable, but demonstrably uninterested, is like buying hot chips and then feeding the whole damn thing to the pigeons.

Except, John isn't paying attention.

"You're not paying attention," Sherlock says. His familiar jedi-trick of almost mind-reading makes John dart a glare at him, more out of habit than anything else.

Sherlock has moved to his knees. It's strange, to have his face just below the height of John's own.

He's stupidly attractive.

And he's right. John hasn't been paying attention. If he had have been, he might have noticed, before now, the way that Sherlock's eyes have gone a little darker, shadowed by the shift of his irises. He might have noticed, too, the way that Sherlock's lashes have begun to hang heavy, the way they do when he's been labouring beneath the pressure of a three patch problem – or, beneath the pressure of the three patches, to be more precise.

Sherlock is looking languid, and easy, and softly curious, and he has his attention fixed on nothing, nothing but John.

Sherlock says his name. Just once. Just like that. Just, _John_.

John's breath hitches; catches in his throat the way the sigh had failed to.

John can't actually say whether he kisses Sherlock, or whether Sherlock kisses him – Sherlock would know, and John doesn't care – but he _can_ say what it feels like. Sherlock's lips, slightly chapped from the gusty wind they'd been running against, a few hours earlier. Sherlock's mouth, warm and welcoming – staggeringly, surprisingly welcoming, except not surprising at all, because Sherlock does everything with abandon, throwing himself into it with every inch of flesh and brain. That's how he kisses, too; with abandon, but precision, as though he knows exactly what he wants to do, and how. John doesn't doubt that Sherlock is reading his tells. He doesn't doubt that Sherlock is observing, memorising, deducing and extrapolating. What makes John's breath come faster. What makes it hitch. What makes his fingers grip tighter into the skin-warmed silk of Sherlock's shirt. John does find himself doubting, though, as he catches little breaths, as he catches Sherlock's tongue against his lips, is that this is the first time Sherlock has kissed someone – Sherlock's hands are at the sides of his face, now, a thumb rubbing beneath his ear. John files that away in the mental cabinet of things he finds interesting, but has no pressing desire to dwell upon, and simply takes it as a kind of permission. A kind of permission, to lean in a little closer, to drag one of his hands upwards, to slide fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck. The silk of the collar is decadent against the back of his hand, preposterous, but oh-so-Sherlock. It makes his stomach quiver, despite his own personal theory that it must be Mycroft, or perhaps their mother, who provides Sherlock with some kind of wardrobe allowance, to dress the way he does. Or perhaps they just provide him with the wardrobe. John doesn't know. He doesn't care. He slips fingers between shirt and neck, Sherlock's skin warm and human, then slides them back up again; tangles them in Sherlock's curls. The ghost-memory of them against his hand flushes into present reality again. Alive and brilliant, he thinks, alive and brilliant and _real_ , and how often has John thought about this, then? How often has he actively, actively _not-_ imagined...?

"John," says Sherlock, softly. He speaks the word against the side of John's mouth, crooked and low. John pulls his head back sharply, and feels a sudden rush of almost-guilt. He remembers, now, that he genuinely has no idea whether he'd instigated the kiss, or whether Sherlock had, and that kind of thing makes all the difference in the world. Christ, what if Sherlock had just been being _polite?_ No, no, Sherlock wouldn't. But an experiment; a whim, an indulgent experience, since John was offering it to him; that, that was something Sherlock could manage.

"John," Sherlock says again, in a different tone, this time, as though he's read something on John's face. He runs his thumb across John's chin.

And John, John suddenly realises that he doesn't want to do this. He feels it, jagged, inside his stomach: the piercing understanding that this _isn't what he wants._ It's an overdose of clarity, like lightning and thunder and all of the clichés, mixed in with the petulant scream of a backing garbage-truck. It rings in his ears. He doesn't want to do this. Not like this. Not here. Not now. Not simply because _the married ones had been at it again_ , and the sound of the sex had pushed the blood from his brain to his prick. Not simply because Sherlock had... but now, there's a question.

"What are we doing?" John asks, blandly, bluntly. Then, "Sherlock, what are you doing?" He can feel his face settling into accusatory lines. He still has his hand at the nape of Sherlock's neck, though.

Of course, he could let go. He should let go, really. His hand, perhaps still resenting the loss of touch earlier, is brazenly disobeying him, however. Besides, John knows, for a fact, that Sherlock doesn't object to being touched. Touched by some people, certainly, but not by all. He'd seen the man wrap Mrs Hudson into bear hugs often enough to know that; hell, it had been the first thing he'd seen, when he'd been introduced to their landlady. John knows, from watching, that it's more that people don't touch Sherlock, rather than the other way around. John gets it, too. Sherlock can be an abrasive bastard. Sherlock can be downright horrible. And Sherlock can, it's true, on occasion, shy away. He's never shied away from John, though. Maybe that's why John has always allowed him into his space; let him loom over him, let him steal his things, his food, his toothpaste.

John lets his hand be, then, indulging it, if wants to be completely bloody ridiculous, and says, again, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock is doing a good impression of a man who isn't able to answer. No. No, that's not quite right. Sherlock is doing a good impression of a man who can think of a great many answers, a sodding mountain's worth of them, but doesn't find any of them to his liking. Doesn't find any of them to be quite suitable. To be, precisely, the exact thing he's searching for. "I..." he begins, then pauses. If John's stomach had fluttered before, it positively sways now; Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, brilliant, and mad, and positively fantastic – lost for words.

John's other hand decides to join in the destruction of common sense, and settles back on Sherlock's shirt, straightening the collar.

Sherlock's gaze drifts down to John's hand, and hovers there. He seems to find his answer in the curve of John's thumb, because he lets his lashes sweep low and says, "I... find you attractive."

John counts in the silence – one, two, five-and-three-quarters.

Sherlock's lashes sweep up again, and he peers at John, as though to survey the damage.

John crooks his finger against Sherlock's clavicle.

Sherlock nods to himself, or perhaps to John, or perhaps to the apartment at large, and continues. "I didn't intend for it. You should know that, I suppose. It wasn't a premeditated plan. Of course, I did find you attractive when I first saw you, yes, but not in a way that—"

He pauses.

John rubs his thumb against Sherlock's neck, as though the contact with Sherlock's skin helps him think; in a weird, counter-intuitive manner, it actually does. "Not in in a way that you thought would interfere with your work, right?"

No way would Sherlock have risked that. Not intentionally, not deliberately, surely. It went against everything John knew about the man.

He remembers how Sherlock had said _thank you_ , when John had reassured him, that first time, in Angelo's restaurant.

Sherlock pulls his face into what is almost a frown. "Correct," he agrees. "Not in a way that I believed would be... overwhelming." Another pause, then, as though it almost hurts to admit, "Clearly, I was mistaken."

John's hand stills. He doesn't mean to stare, he really doesn't, but he can't quite help it. He just. Well. Does. Just stares, at Sherlock. Sherlock, his mouth soft – and John knows that, now – and his teeth liable to clash against John's – John knows that know, too – and his hands, swift and warm – a fact that John also knows—

Sherlock, _mistaken._

It's probably wrong, the way that John's body trembles in response to that word.

He suspects he's long past the point of that actually mattering, though.

He licks at his lip, almost nervous, and tries to find the words for what it is that he wants to say. What it is that he wants to say, to address Sherlock's statement. He can't locate them, though; the words. He thinks that might be because, in reality, he has no idea what they are. After a while he almost shrugs, shifts his thumb again, and says, simply, "I really did mean it, you know. When I said that it's all fine."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. His face moves back to something more familiar now, an impatient, but amused, expression, which says that John's need to repeat himself is entirely unnecessary, and entirely preposterous, but that he's going to let it pass, at least this once. He puts his hand against John's chest; his fingertips investigate the wool of John's jumper, as though it's an important clue in a particularly fascinating case. "I know," he says, while John is distracted. "I know that you meant it, and I know that you genuinely didn't believe you were coming on to me; I would never have let you stay, had it been otherwise." He doesn't let John speak, simply continues, calmly; "I furthermore know that you are attracted primarily to women, but also to some men. I know that you lost your virginity, to a girl who lived in your street, at an age slightly younger than average, whilst your first sexual experiment with a man wasn't until your second year of medical school. However—" John doesn't even bother protesting, "—none of that helps me with the knowledge that you are, now, apparently quite consciously, attracted to me. That changes everything. You have no idea, absolutely no idea, how distracting that is. I had expected it to be bothersome. It usually _would_ be bothersome. It isn't. It's intoxicating."

John could argue the point, just for the sake of it. He almost does, out of sheer pig-headed habit. It would seem a little petty, though. And redundant, considering as how he'd just kissed the man. And seeing as how he still has both of his hands on Sherlock's person, and obviously isn't making the slightest move to change that fact.

Also, there's the tiny point that Sherlock is, as always, perfectly correct.

But what can he say? _Gosh, I'm so terribly sorry that I find you appealing; I really didn't mean to end up at the point where I'm not even bothered by the revolting mould you're growing in the bathroom, just because its your revolting mould?_

John doesn't say a word.

Besides, he's finally catching up with the fact that Sherlock is talking about reciprocating. Is using words like _attractive, distracting_ and _intoxicating_.

Intoxicating.

Sherlock.

Him.

It's quiet, then, when Sherlock moves. The motion is only small, almost delicate; he leans backwards, and into the touch of John's hand at his neck. The shift is smooth, and somehow luxurious. John warms in response, automatically; because he has to. Folds his fingers closer against Sherlock's skin. Scoots his other hand backwards, too, curving it up through Sherlock's hair.

John has completely forgotten that he doesn't want to be doing this.

Sherlock, who no doubt knows the moment it slips John's mind, leans in towards him again. This second kiss is slower than the first. John moves his fingers, pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock puts his palms on John's knees, soft but insistent, pressing into John's jeans. John tugs on Sherlock's hair, fingers gripping tighter, and Sherlock moans into their kiss – low, unexpected, _needy_.

The sound shoots to his groin, and John remembers, belatedly, that he'd decided this was a Very Bad Idea.

Sherlock's moan turns into a chuckle. It's warm, and reverberates through John's body.

"What happened," John manages, clutching at the frayed edges of his self-control, "to you being married to your job?"

Sherlock tips his head back, far enough so that John can focus on him properly. Lazily, he shrugs. "Is it possible, John, that you haven't noticed your own importance? The role that you now play, to and for and with my work?" Then, in a lower voice, deep tones catching below John's belt, "Do you think I would _let_ let you overwhelm me, distract me, the way that you have, if the benefits didn't outweigh the risks? If I didn't consider you _part_ of everything, now?"

John laughs, not because it's funny, so much as because he doesn't know what else to do. He feels like he's overdosing on sensations. John feels, too, though, as he sees Sherlock's face relax, soften into something less defensive, that Sherlock has understood his reaction. John wants to say _so you're saying you're married to me, then?_ but he doesn't, because his tongue can't shape those words, not quite, not yet. Instead, he simply grins, simply says, "Really, Sherlock? Really?" and lets the tone of his voice, the touch of his hands, express the rest.

Sherlock grins right back at him, crooked and arrogant and just a little bit delighted. "Really," he purrs.

Then grabs hold of John's shoulders, and crowds into John's space, and onto John's chair. He's all ridiculously long legs, of course, and pointy elbows, and the scent of beeswax and battery grime, but John finds he doesn't care. Finds that he likes it; loves it, even. Finds that this is what he's been missing, wanting, waiting for, even more than he'd imagined.

Sherlock lets out a gasp, obscene and glorious, when John sucks at his throat. John wonders, just for a moment, whether he's going to have to start feeling sheepish; whether he's going to have to begin to worry about what the neighbours can hear.

When Sherlock slides his hands – warm and possessive – beneath John's jumper, though, and begins a detailed exploration of John's body, John decides that he really, really doesn't care.

After all, they started it.


End file.
